


Come Unleashed

by ShardsofBrokenGlass



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Google Translated Languages, Light BDSM, Mutual Pining, NSFW, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-07-18 13:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16119746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShardsofBrokenGlass/pseuds/ShardsofBrokenGlass
Summary: A recent convert into the Emeritus Luciferian Church prepares for her initiation as a Sister of Sin and finds herself in the arms of Cardinal Copia himself.





	1. Eyesore

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've written in about five or six years and the first I've posted to this site. I've been debating whether or not to put it up for a while, especially because there are so many beautiful and well-composed stories for this fandom already, so I've been hanging onto it for some time. Be gentle.

“Arms up, girl.”

Inhaling deeply, I obey, raising my arms away from my body to allow Sister Juliet to wrap the measuring tape around my torso. I avoid looking at myself, stripped down to standard-issue black bra and panties, in the full-length mirror a couple feet away. I’m unbelievably uncomfortable, but this is a necessity. Initiation into the Emeritus Luciferian Church as a new Sister of Sin takes place within the year, after many, many months of dedicated preparation. Needless to say, this process has been expedited. The church isn’t growing as quickly as the clergy would like, so they’re allowing the breaking of certain regulations to increase their numbers and are welcoming those who want to dedicate themselves to a more profound calling. They don’t like to discuss it.

Even longer was the preparation for my initial conversion into the faith, and soon after, I took the steps to become a bigger part of the church life after I felt…something. A subtle pull, per say. A desire. Always there, as a blaze in my heart, a tugging in my gut, a voice echoing deeply in my skull. An inexplicable sense of urgency led me to where I am today. Today I’m finally being measured for my habit, a garment for the Sisters of Sin within the church. Me. _A Sister of Sin,_ I think _._ I’m as meek and plain Jane and average as a person could be, and I’m joining a satanic church to boot.  _Who would've thought?_  If only the people who knew me could see me now. Would they be surprised? Shocked? Scandalized? Disappointed?

“Your hair.”

“Hm?”

“I need you to hold your hair, girl. It’s in the way. Would you like your measurements to be accurate or not?” Sister Juliet lets the measuring tape fall away from my body. “Do I have to keep reminding you?” Her brow wrinkles with impatience, and I want to smooth the creases with my hand.

Oops.

“Sorry, Sister,” I apologize sheepishly, gathering my hair in my hands and holding it above my shoulders. What’s with all this “girl” and “child” talk? The lines on Sister Juliet’s face are scarce; she can’t be more than ten years my senior. She’s a lovely thing, as any woman named Juliet would be.

She appraises me stonily. “Hm. Maybe you should cut it. Doesn’t it get in the way?”

I flinch under her gaze. Or maybe it's from the draft in the small, closed-off room instead, but I try to stand my ground all the same. “Absolutely not,” I state firmly. My hair is my only good feature, and I’m not going to lose the strawberry blonde mane hanging thick and heavy around my hips, the result of years and years of meticulous care.

Sister Juliet draws the measuring tape around my chest. “It’s a little much, but that might be Sister Imperator’s call. I’d wear it up from now on.” _I’ve been here a while, and no one else has said anything yet,_ I ponder. Perhaps she's jealous of it. A millisecond later, I laugh at myself for entertaining the idea. _Of course she isn’t._ Sister Juliet pauses, reads the measurement at my breasts, and fails to suppress a chuckle. “My, my. Not much to look at in this department, are we?”

My face burns and the urge to cross my arms over my meager chest flares hotly. The impulse is so strong that my torso twitches and I nearly drop my hair. “No, Sister.” My arms start to sting with an ache from holding it up. If the rest of my body matched the smallness of my breasts, I would look proportional; it doesn’t. I’m toned enough, but there is a certain softness to my stomach, thighs, and ass that no amount of diet and exercise has been able to shed. I hate the look of it.

Sister Juliet eyes my stricken face and slides the tape to my waist. “Don’t look so glum, child. No need to worry; Papa doesn’t discriminate.”

I choke on thin air. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard yet? Papa beds most, if not all, of the sisters eventually. And often. Everyone knows.” She looks genuinely surprised. “Haven’t the other ladies have told you by now?”

“I might’ve heard a thing or two.” I can’t hide the nervousness that flits across my expression. “I didn’t think they were actually serious.” I briefly recall faint, whispered conversations held behind dainty hands before bedtime several months ago and again last week. I always pretended not to overhear, as I am often ignored by my roommates regardless and figured they’re just stories uttered to intimidate the new girls. I buried them in the back of my brain to be forgotten whenever I shoved my face into my pillow. However, hearing it from a more official source was…jarring, to say the least. I steal a glance at the mirror in front of me; my face is flushed, redness temporarily mingling into the splotches of dense freckles on my face. _Now she probably thinks I’m a prude._

As if detecting the thought shooting across my brain, surprise morphs into shock, and Sister Juliet scrutinizes my flaming cheeks. “Miss Stoker, are you a virgin?” She sounds almost sympathetic.

_Well, I guess we’re getting straight to the point then._ I turn a deeper shade of scarlet. “Yes, Sister.” My voice is a weak, strangled-sounding thing. “I mean, not by choice. I’ve never had the opportunity, uh, or the interest of anyone to make it happen.” I grew up a bit repressed, but I’m not that shy about sex. Only when it comes to being unexpectedly questioned about it, apparently. “Um, I know how it all works and how to take care of myself…” My voice lowers. _Oh fuck, why can’t I just shut up?_   "I don’t think I could hold Papa’s attention anyway, let alone have it to begin with. He has plenty of other fresh bodies to choose from.” _I’m done. I’m done talking_. “Much prettier or interesting than me.” _There. Done. Finished._ I slam my mouth shut and my teeth click audibly.

“And how old are you?”

I work my jaw before opening my mouth again. “Twenty-three,” I respond a bit miserably as I drop my head a fraction of an inch. I’m not as oldest here nor the youngest. I have yet to actually meet Papa Emeritus III; he’s been on tour for the Ghost Project for an extended time but will be back soon to prepare for and eventually conduct our initiation ritual. My interactions with him include only the masses he performs, and I’m too intimidated to attend one of his confession times, always choosing a different clergy member instead. He leaves for tours and appearances quite often. The first two anti-popes have also made themselves scarce since their youngest brother replaced them. In Emeritus III’s absence, Papa Nihil is filling in as his health allows, with other clergy members lending a hand when needed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, child,” says the woman who subtly insulted me not too long ago. The measuring tape slips around my hips and behind as her whole demeanor changes. “You’ve got something to work with down here.” A small tap to my right hip and I almost allow myself a fake smile. “You can put your arms down.” I relax my arms and let my stick-straight hair spill back over my shoulder. Sister Juliet holds the measuring tape vertically against me. “Hm. Average height.” She makes a note, then folds the tape and measures a shorter length from my hip to just below my knees, muttering to herself. “Finished,” she announces from below a few moments later.

“I didn’t come here to lose my, um, purity, you know.” As if it would make my joining any less valid if I did. I step off the small platform and bend over to retrieve my temporary uniform off the floor. “My research told me people turn to Satan for many different reasons, but our classes teach all that’s truly needed is to understand the literature and agree with the philosophies, yes?”

“To start with. You’ve probably noticed we’re a bit different here. You have an initiation ritual, for example. That’s not always the case.” Sister Juliet hands me the black blazer after I slip on the matching skirt and white button-up shirt. “We’re very serious about mocking Christianity in this church.” There’s a knock on the door as I slip on my low heels. Her head jerks toward the noise. “Ah. The next girl is right on time. I suggest you run to your doctrine lesson.”

We receive lessons over different subjects to prepare us for entry into the church, and they continue well beyond. “Everything will be ready in…two weeks, right?” I ask as I reach into the pocket of my blazer and pull out the silver Grucifix necklace; I hold it up the light emitted by the small chandelier on the ceiling, appreciatively watching it glimmer for a moment before fastening it around my neck. Wearing it feels so inexplicably _right_. I swear it _pulses_ and _thrums_ faintly against my skin. My fingers ghost around the edges as I make my way toward the door.

“Yes. It will be delivered directly to your chambers.”

I incline my head. “Thank you, Sister.”

“Oh, one more thing.” I stop in my tracks and turn around. Sister Juliet holds a hair tie out to me. I twist my mouth down into a bitter half-smile and take it. “Be sure to confess your self-loathing to a clergy member the next time you go to confession. You know we don’t like that here.” _She read me like a book._ She waves me away with a hand. “You’ll be much better off overcoming it.”

“Yes, Sister.” _But it’s not exactly easy when everyone else here looks like…_ I nearly collide with the next appointment when we both try to walk through the large oak door at the same time, her entering and me exiting. _Well. That._ She walks right past me without sparing even so much as a glance my way. My heart aches when I see that of course, she is stunningly feminine. Large-breasted and slender in all the right places, slim facial features, bouncy hair. I pause long enough in my retreat to watch the toss of her head and beatific smile at Sister Juliet before the door swings shut with a thud. _And confident._ All the rest of the soon-to-be Sisters of Sin look like that. No joke. Every. Single. One.

How different I look from them is almost comical really. I begin my trek up the vast hallway of the positively colossal manor; the sound of my heels clicking against the floor echoes off the ornate walls. _It’s so easy to get lost in here if you don’t know where you’re going._ I reach up to separate my hair into sections and steadily start weaving it into a long braid. As much as I prefer my hair being down, I don’t want to risk Sister Imperator or anyone else requesting it be cut off. I don’t know if she can even do that. _Now that’s an intimidating woman._ Practical and stern on the first few impressions, but I suspect she’s amiable enough once one gets past all that. Papa Nihil looks at her rather softly, after all.

The grandfather clock next to the front door tells me that I have enough time to stop by my quarters before the doctrine lesson. I pause to finish my braid before pushing the heavy door open to the outside. The slightly chilled air kisses my face, and I sigh. Ah, autumn. We’re one week into the equinox. As I learned within my first week here, the church celebrates two main holidays as well as both solstices and equinoxes. We have some events in between. The celebration at the start of the week had been divine. A great feast was held in the courtyard; altars were built and stacked with apples, leaves, pinecones, corn, squash, and root vegetables. Incense was burnt, and dark candles were lit as we prayed for Satan’s blessings. Afterward, some of the congregation and clergy told stories that held rapt attention, some performed downright enchanting music, some meditated, and others, like me, simply sat and listened and watched others craft, laugh, and play under the light of the moon. With a blanket around my shoulders, wine warming my belly, and the cloying scent of incense clinging to my nostrils, I hugged my legs to my chest and eventually nodded off near one of the few bonfires extending its flames into the night sky.

_What a wonderful night._ It was one of the few times I was perfectly content and experienced a rare sense of belongingness. A wistful smile makes a brief appearance before I stifle it, and my residence building looms ahead of me as I approach. I’ll move to the nunnery in one of the manor’s many wings when I become a higher ranking and more established sister.

I have one foot through the entrance of my residence building when a soft, familiar neigh floats its way to me across the grounds. Caught by astonishment, I pause with a gasp and grip the door to prevent it slamming shut on my leg. I whip around in the direction of the distant stables in time to see an elegant white horse mounted by a figure clad entirely in black disappear from view. I bite my bottom lip and squint; as usual, that’s all I can discern. With some special permissions, the horses here are used for mostly recreational purposes. There is nothing stopping me from asking someone who this dark rider is, but where’s the fun in solving my own mystery? I relish how it causes my spine to prickle and goosebumps to erupt along my arms and the hairs at the base of my neck to stand on end. Sometimes I would go weeks without witnessing it, and other times it would happen on consecutive days. A specific time or pattern doesn’t seem to exist.

Exhaling heavily, I scurry inside and pull the door firmly shut behind me.


	2. Ready or Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting this to be as long as it is. I won't lie; I'm still figuring out where I want to go with this story, but I have a few ideas. Sorry in advance for any spelling or grammatical errors you may find. Also, apologies for the wait.

I startle awake to my roommates’ alarms blaring the next morning and am thankful that I can rely on someone usually remembering to set their clock for it. I’ve never missed a lesson and often wonder what the consequences of that would be. Before I could set my alarm last night, I dozed off in the middle of attempting to memorize my entire prayer book, hunched over and later stirring at four in the morning with a stiff back and neck; I left the small volume on the floor when I flopped onto my stomach. I share quarters with three other ladies, and sometimes I’m inclined to join them for breakfast; other mornings, I’ll skip it altogether and survive on coffee until lunch.

My section of the room is the one closest to the door, so I lie on my side with my back to the others, half-listening to their sleepy conversations as I grapple with indecisiveness. Remarkably, I’m not tired. The chatter ends as I throw back my bedding and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Offering a faint, close-mouthed smile in my roommates’ directions, I amble unsteadily over to my closet and dresser to gather my undergarments and uniform. I may or may not hear a “So kind of her to join us” uttered from behind me but I don’t care enough to hunt for the potential sarcasm. They’ve already shed their simple white nightgowns and stand unabashedly nude in front of each other. I turn my back to their beautiful bodies.

There is one bathroom per floor of the residence building to be shared by all inhabitants of that floor. The tile chills my bare feet as I strip in a stall; everyone is in a happier place if I’m not walked in on. I emerge and walk over to the large mirror above the row of sinks to freshen up. The dark shadows under a pair of hazel eyes—more brown in color than a pretty green or gold—seem to be a permanent addition to a face that too strongly resembles my father’s. I comb out my hair, and my gaze drops to my wrist. The hair tie from yesterday sits snugly against my skin. I feel oddly defeated as I twist the strands into a plait again.

Rubbing the deep, fleshy indentation on my arm, I reenter the room to find my roommates putting finishing touches on their appearances. I pick up my bag and the onyx-haired woman I believe to be named Una hands me my prayer book. “You left it on the floor,” she tells me.

“Right. Thank you.” I put it gingerly in my bag. Una’s often solemn expression and extremely dark eyes, skin, and hair remind me of a raven. Our choir practice often puts her beautiful voice on display. I stare at her for what might be a bit too long because she coughs awkwardly and leaves our room. The rest of the ladies follow suit and I stand there blinking stupidly for a moment before catching up to them.

Of course, the sidewalks here are only made wide enough for three people because I always tail the group when we walk them. I keep my distance so I don’t eavesdrop on their conversation. _It’s not meant for me_. It allows me to steal a glance over to the stables as we make our way to the manor. I don’t see my mysterious rider that day. I don’t see him the day after either.

 

* * *

 

The end of the week draws nearer, and I still haven’t gone to confession. The current Ghost Project tour is coming to a close and the church has been preparing for the arrival of the Third and his Nameless Ghouls. _I should probably do it before they come back,_ I think. _Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow._ I’m standing in front of the bulletin board in the entryway of the main chapel, examining the confession times posted in the lower right-hand corner. To my luck, there are a few different time slots in the couple hours I have after lunch and before my Latin lesson. I find more comfort in confessing to one of the ghouls than I do to one of the higher-ranking church officials.

The chapel is dark, except for the faint, flickering light of the candelabras bearing black candles around the perimeter. Their illumination doesn’t extend a very far reach. _I’ve got some time to just…sit._ I walk slowly up the aisle and seat myself at the very end of a pew. Everything is surprisingly lightly colored, as opposed to an expected black and red. The altar in front of me is shadowed, as are the elaborate pentagrams etched into the floor. The silence swallows me whole, and I tilt my head back to allow it to.

Without a warning, my spine goes rigid. My breathing slows, then stills. I’m completely quiet and wide-eyed as the sensation of being watched coils around me. It’s not an experience I have often, but one remembers what it’s like. Is there someone there? _I have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing here will hurt me. We were promised._ The feeling ebbs a bit. As slowly as I can, I turn my head a smidge to the right, using my peripheral vision to glance behind me. Nothing. Only the oily darkness pressing heavily on my eyes and the glow of light from outside creeping through the glass door at the entrance. How odd. The tension lessens as I unwind. “For fuck’s sake,” I sigh aloud. I stand up. I need to leave.

A sudden movement scampers around my feet. I shriek in surprise and clap a hand over my mouth as it echoes loudly. I hear a muffled noise skittering up the aisle away from me. Without knowing why, I drop to my knees and scramble after it. “Stop!” I hiss, getting over my shock. “What _are_ you?” I must’ve put the fear of Satan into the thing, whatever it is. I crawl forward, unseeing. “Come back!”

An inquisitive squeak. “Oh, hello.” By some stroke of luck, I find myself face to face with a pair of beady eyes. A plump, sleek rat sits back on its haunches and scents the air, eyeing me warily. Worried about frightening it further, I carefully rock back onto my heels to match its position. I heard complaints from congregation members about rats prowling about this place, but the creatures hide well enough that I haven’t spotted one until this moment. “I’m not going to hurt you. I must’ve scared the living daylights out of you earlier, poor thing!” Just a rat. It’s just a rat.

It places its paws on the ground and hesitantly creeps forward. “Hang on a sec.” I stick a hand into one of the pockets of my blazer and close my fist on a dry, crumbly mess. “I took this from breakfast and was going to eat it later, but I guess you can have it.” I extend a cautious hand and offer the slightly squished biscuit to the rat. “Though you don’t look like you need it; gods know I don’t. You look healthy. I bet someone takes care of you. Loves you.” Shiny fur and sharp eyes are what I see in the dim light. “You’re definitely not just a stray pest.” To my triumph, the creature inches forward, sniffs around my fingers, and grabs the biscuit. The treat is somewhat too large for it, so the rat drags it away. It settles down a few inches from me to munch happily.

“Aw. Wonder if you have a name. Were you the one watching me earlier?” I ask. “I feel much better about it being you than someone else.” The rat twitches an ear. I could be delusional, but I swear its listening to me. Not just listening to me but understanding and comprehending what I’m saying. I gesture toward the altar. “I was finding some peace; my brain won’t shut up lately. I’m going to be a Sister of Sin soon, and I’m ready but not. You know, I’ve never been to a sacrificial ritual? They’re rare and the martyrs are willing, but something about it still gives me the skeeves. All for the glory of our Dark Lord, but I feel like such a coward. And my Latin isn’t up to par. Ah damn, maybe I’m not ready after all.” I swallow thickly as if I could gag down the crushing wave of self-doubt and pick at the dry skin around my thumbnail. “The other sisters are so beautiful, too. I don’t measure up.”

The rat stops eating and gazes at me inscrutably when I start to giggle at the ridiculousness of the current situation moments later. “Why am I telling all of this to a rat anyway? You probably don’t care. You don’t even know what I’m saying; you’re just an animal.”  I rise on stiff legs. “Maybe this could count as a confession. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Slinking forward, the rat plants itself right next to my foot and gives me what couldn’t be mistaken as anything other than an insulted expression. A twinge of guilt surfaces, and I wince. “Sorry, that was rude. I really do need to get going though. I have Latin in a bit.” Carefully stepping around the rodent, I waggle my fingers at it. “Bye-bye. Take care and enjoy your biscuit. Don’t, uh, get caught in a trap.” Can a rat be judgmental? Because that’s what I feel its intelligent eyes communicating to my back as I walk up the aisle. However, the feeling of being watched from earlier doesn’t return with it. _I’ll keep my eyes open from now on._

 

* * *

 

"Miss Stoker? Rebecca? Rebecca!”

“Mmph?” I blink rapidly, bleary-eyed, and lift my head off my folded arms. Sister Margot, who is in charge of the church’s library, grips my shoulder and gives it another rousing shake. My neck is stiff as I free myself from the remnants of an unexpected nap. “Whazit?” I mumble incoherently.

She withdraws her hand. “When you walked in, you told me you have confession at two o’clock. Didn’t you?”

I nod slowly. “What time is it now?”

“Ten ‘til.”

It takes a comically long time for me to register that I’m running behind. I turn my head and look at the clock on the wall, staring dumbfoundedly. When it clicks, I jump as though a bear trap snaps its teeth together under my ass. “sHIT!” I bash my knee against the underside of the table in my haste to stand up and almost plop back down again. A bruise is going to blossom there for sure. “Shitshitshitshitshitshit.” Scrambling, I cram the books strewn about the table into my bag as I mutter curse upon curse under my breath. Sister Margot watches my bedlam with amusement and a gently cocked head.

“And you can’t go to a later time because…?”

I ignore the question. “I can make it if I run. Sorry for the noise. Thank you for waking me up.” Wildly waving, I take off between the rows of shelves while she shakes her head. Unintentionally, I scare an amorous couple apart in their hiding place as I run by.

The cold air burns my lungs and my knees ache as I sprint frantically across the grounds. _I need to take up running again,_ I think mournfully _._ I don’t even glance at the stables this time. I stutter-step as I reach the chapel and throw myself through the doors, almost colliding with a tall, lean ghoul on my way in. He grunts as I stagger past him. “Sorry!” I throw over my shoulder. He tips his head to the side at me, silver mask expressionless, and says nothing. The ghouls unnerve me even now; those masks are too lifelike, regardless of what actually lies beneath. I briefly wonder if he’s a part of the troupe that used to play with the Third. Some were cast out or summoned back to hell; others remain.

My brain refuses to put two and two together as to why a ghoul would be exiting the chapel at this time, so I surge forward, toss my bag into a pew with a loud _CLUNK!_ , and make a beeline for the door that opens to the confessional. I practically launch myself into the booth and cringe when the door slams loudly shut behind me. My heaving breaths fill the confined, dark space as I shakily descend upon the kneeler attached to the wooden confessional panel, folding my quivering hands in prayer. The diamond-shaped hollows in the screen are large enough to allow a soft orange glow to stream through onto my face but small enough to prevent me from stealing anything other than a tiny glimpse beyond them.

This church of Satan commends and encourages sinning, but I also discovered that there are certain rules that shouldn’t be broken. Biting my tongue, I rack my brain for more to confess before I become hyper-aware of my own breathing, and it closely resembles someone’s last breaths after being suffocated with a plastic bag. The confessional booth fills with my wheezing and rigid anticipation bleeding from my nervousness and embarrassment. Conscious of the seconds ticking by, I open my mouth to begin the sacrament. “Forgive and praise me, most profane Reverend, for I have sinned—”

“Ahem.”

I freeze, unsure of how to proceed at the interruption. Based on my prior experiences, I’m certain this isn’t supposed to happen. I break through my momentary paralysis to ask, “…um, pardon?”

“ ‘Your Eminence.’ You should call me ‘Your Eminence.’ ”

My blood turns to ice. I barely restrain myself from leaping to my feet and fleeing the booth as all color drains from my face. _Eminence. Your EMINENCE?_ I fight to gather the thoughts whipping around in my head like shreds of debris caught in a cyclone. Eminence. That’s a title. A very high-ranking title. Bishops, archbishops. Most commonly, a title given to a Roman Catholic cardinal, a practice that carried over into the Emeritus Luciferian Church. My mind flashes back to the ghoul I almost bowled over earlier. _He was leaving. Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl._ I’m too late. Foolish of me to ever believe I was fast enough. I never even looked to see who had the time slot after.

This isn’t what I wanted. This is the exact opposite of what I wanted. By some sick joke of fate, I’m in confession with one of the most prestigious positions in the church, just under the Papas. I immediately feel very sick; I’m quaking, and my stomach roils violently. I bow forward and press my clammy forehead against the screen while I concentrate on breathing again. _In through your nose, out through your mouth._

The man on the other side clears his throat again. “Well?”

The voice is urgent, an Italian-accented tenor, and a tad nasal but not unpleasant to the ears. I find myself latching onto it in an attempt to center myself and stop the booth from spinning. My fingers curl into several of the diamonds. Licking my lips fruitlessly, I finally force my dry tongue to form words. “I haven’t— I’m not— I didn’t…”

He waits. “Yes?”

The patient tone of his voice soothes me. _I’m here. Right now. I might as well get past this._ After another pause, I abandon the excuse I began to half-stammer out and try again. “Forgive and praise me, Your Eminence, for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession,” I croak. Bated breath whooshes out of my lungs. There we go. _I can do this._ I relax substantially and roll my head around on my shoulders to loosen up my neck.

“Welcome back. Ah, what are your sins to be forgiven?” He speaks with the ease of one who has done this so many times before, but perhaps his confidence stems only from the repeated practice or from speaking to an inferior. _There’s an undercurrent of something…_ Hidden insecurity? Trepidation?

“Um,” I hesitate, striving to piece together how to disclose this, “my sin is self-loathing. Because of my self-doubt.”

An understanding noise emits from his throat. “Please elaborate, child.”

I cling more tightly to the divider for security, but my heart rate has decreased considerably and I’m no longer shivering with anxiety; shame takes its place. “Oh, Lucifer. Erm, I really hate admitting this. I’m so envious of the other women here. They’re all stunning, and I’m, well, not. It’s laughable and I feel so silly.”

The man opposite me shifts in his seat. “You do not think yourself attractive, yes?”

I nod my head, then remember he can’t see me. “Er, I don’t _think_. I _know._ I’ve never been on a date. Never had a boyfriend…or a girlfriend. I went to high school dances alone, and people avoided me in college. I’ve never…been approached by anyone here, not even by the ghouls, despite all the orgies and library fucking I hear about.” My voice edges on becoming intolerably whiny. _You’re not a child. Quit it._ “Correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but those should be signs that others think you’re desirable.”

“Hm. If you say so. Describe yourself, if you will.” The calm way he utters the command sends a fluttery chill from the base of my spine to the top of my scalp.

“I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but not a chance. You’re not supposed to be able to identify me if you see me outside of confession.” I pray the rushed refusal doesn’t make him angry. The nervousness surges forth again, and I tremble.

He sighs. “You are correct. Continue.”

 _Oh, he's miffed._ I raise my head and press my eye to a hole, hoping to see beyond it. I’m rewarded with a momentary view of the black cassock that all the cardinals wear but nothing more. “I don’t know how to,” I admit. “I could keep complaining about how much I hate my appearance, but I’m betting that would grate on your ears. That’s all my superior instructed me to confess.”

“ ‘Instructed?’ Sister—”

I interrupt a distinguished clergy official for the second time. “No, not yet. My initiation ritual hasn’t taken place. Soon, though.” _I am the dumbest motherfucker that ever lived._ I’ve gone from being terrified at the very idea of this man’s stature to making arguments in less than five minutes. A huff sounds from the other side of the screen. “Your Eminence, I’m so sorry…”

“Let’s move on then, shall we?”

I’m relieved that he also chooses to gloss over the topic of my virginity. I’ve heard of the confessionals being used for acts not so contrite in nature by clergy and congregation members both. Some minuscule piece of me appreciates that he didn’t initiate a seduction to boost my self-esteem; another snippet of me is riddled with disappointment. “Right. Self-doubt. Your Eminence, I’m thrilled to fully consecrate myself to Satan. Ecstatic. But I don’t know if he would want a sister like me. My Latin isn’t strong. I’m not as dedicated to prayer as I should be. I haven’t attended a sacrificial ritual yet. Or,” I almost swallow my next words, “an erotic one. Sir, what if I’m not ready? What if I’m rejected?” _I refuse to cry. I will NOT cry._ Despite my willpower, hot tears prick my eyes and my throat closes on the last word.

I hear the cardinal move in his seat again, cassock whispering with the adjustment. “Ah _passerotta,_ the Dark One will be overjoyed to have a servant as concerned with pleasing him as you are.”

“Really?” I try not to sniffle too loudly.

“Yes. It’s, uh, clear that you care deeply about being worthy. You are only human, little one. Humans have weaknesses.” His voice is warm and wraps itself around me like a blanket. “Do not concern yourself with those rituals for the time being. They will be more important after you become a sister. These things come with time. What matters is that you are trying. You are fully prepared to devote yourself, so you are ready; I sense it.”

Relief sweeps through me. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in a while,” I mumble. “Thank you, Your Unholy Eminence.”

“ _Prego,_ my child. As for your appearance… Our Lucifer loves and treasures and lusts after all physical forms. Are you saying he is mistaken?”

I’m stricken by that. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good. Remember that. Now, for your penance. Please continue to work on your daily prayer. Improve your Latin, as you have been. And,” he chuckles, an endearing _ehehehe_ sound, “do something that scares you, eh? Don’t always do what you’re told.” A pause. “And ten ‘Hell Satans’ as well.” Conflicting messages are entwined in those statements.

My knees pop as I start to rise from the kneeler. “I’ll do that. Thank—”

“And what are your sins to be praised?”

I sink back down. _Oops_. His voice isn’t sensuous in the slightest, but my imagination takes a dive face-first into the gutter anyway. How can it not, when I’ve caught so many sensual tales not meant for my ears in the backs of lesson rooms? Other clergy members, ghouls included, have never elicited this sort of reaction from me. _Why him?_ I clasp my unsteady hands together under my chin, leaning toward the screen.

“None, sir. My sins aren’t extraordinary.” I manage to be both weak and lame at the same time. For a soon-to-be Sister of Sin, I don’t engage in much depravity. _How boring._

He chuckles disbelievingly. “Nonsense. I’m sure there is something.”

Hotness erupts around my ears. “Unless you’re talking about bad language, envy, or a few white lies, then no, Your Eminence.” Strange. In past confessions, no one has pressed the matter this aggressively. I hold back my indignation to the best of my ability. “I have no idea what you want me to say.”

“This is not about what I want you to say,” he responds matter-of-factly. “To sin is in your nature and nothing to hide your face from.”

“I know that,” I respond, irked. “For the third time, my ‘sins to be praised’ are nothing to brag about.” I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds. What’s gotten into me, quarreling with a high member of authority about sinning of all things? I battle the need to gnaw on my thumbnail.

An exasperated exhalation of breath. “Then allow me to help you. What about your thoughts?”

“Thoughts?” I repeat stupidly.

“Yes. Your thoughts, not necessarily your actions.”

Where is this going? “I don’t know.” But I poise motionless on my knees, holding the air in my lungs, waiting.

He coughs. “Well. Have you had any carnal thoughts?”

There it is. His voice remains relatively the same, with no hint of sexuality or lewdness; the timbre of his voice betrays no husky baritone of arousal. Sensible. Practical. Regardless, I blush straight up to the roots of my hair. “No.” My answer comes too hurriedly out of sheer panic.

“Lying, eh? Come now. Surely you’ve had some…lustful imaginings.”

Exasperated, I part my lips to protest again, but I’m stilled by the unbidden resurfacing of an often-suppressed fantasy. _My knees squeezing the sleek, white body beneath me…fingers tangling in the horse’s silken mane. Arms clothed in black reaching around me, holding me in place. Stroking, teasing, groping. Hips rocking in time with the motions beneath us…hot breath ghosting tantalizingly over my ear. One hand skimming pulsing skin lower…lower…lower…_ I gasp and clench, pressing my thighs together to shove back the unwelcome ache of arousal as I banish all thoughts of my mystery rider from my head. _Shit. Can he sense that?_ He heard the desperate sound I made for sure.

I’ve been silent for too long as well. I hear the smile in his voice when he murmurs, “Mm. So there _is_ something.” The confessional booth suddenly feels too constricting as a heady mixture of my fervent humiliation and reluctant excitement, as well as our mutual anticipation, pours into the air. The concoction hangs there, suffocating me; heavy heat crawls up my neck. “Confess, _gattina_.”

He laces the unfamiliar endearment with a purr, finally adding a cautious suggestiveness in an effort to tenderly persuade me. As I kneel there, caught in the struggle of the temptation to spill my desires and the determination to maintain a sense of decency, it nearly works. I’m wrapped up so tightly within myself; when the tension releases due to my resolve, it all but rends me in two.

Body acts separately from brain. Panting, I stagger to my feet, pinpricks piercing my legs as blood recirculates. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I c-can’t.”

“Little one—” But I’m already gone.

 _What a clusterfuck_ , I lament miserably as I stumble through the confessional door. No one waits outside, and I’m not pursued. _Pointless_. No absolution of sins. No final prayer. I wonder if this is the first time a person has fled from confession here or if I must be a special sort of damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I can get the next chapter up quicker this time. I'm a graduate student with two jobs, so I do my best. Thank you for all the wonderful reactions and help with the first chapter. I wasn't expecting that! Gosh, I'm really struggling with the Cardinal's speech patterns, especially when it comes to using contractions of all things. Hopefully I'm balancing it out just fine.
> 
> Also, I went to my first Ghost rituals (ever!) on A Pale Tour Named Death! One on October 27th and another on November 6th. Best shows I've ever been to! Post-ritual depression is real.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any grammatical errors or any mistakes, but I did reread this countless times. I'll update when I can. I'm trying to stick to the lore of the band as closely as possible, as well as sticking to the timeline established by the ritual dates and sketch videos posted online.
> 
> Papa III's last performance and the introduction of Papa Nihil took place on September 30 last year. Copia was not announced as the new frontman until April this year. I want his introduction to the congregation as the head of the church to be a bit of an "Oh my fuck, it's him" moment for our heroine, seeing him in person after she's been indirectly interacting with him and knowing of him for a while. That's the best description I can come up with. Anyway, I'm worried that this might be a bit long to wait for a formal introduction and could be unrealistic. What do you think?


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